


No Man is Useless...

by hardboiledbaby, methylviolet10b, Small_Hobbit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Fanart, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again John Watson suffers from trying to help Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Man is Useless...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ watsons_woes Challenge 021.
> 
> Six drabbles by (round-robin, in order of rotation): Small_Hobbit, Hardboiledbaby, Methylviolet10b
> 
> Banner by: [Quoshara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quoshara/works)

  


  
[](http://imgbox.com/ZlROX0xy)

  


_"No man is useless who has a friend, and if we are loved we are indispensable."_

— R. L. Stevenson

  


Sherlock glanced at the clock and tried to decide what could have delayed John. He had “volunteered” to collect some prints for the case Sherlock was currently working on, but that had been over an hour ago.

Then his phone rang. “Sherlock, it’s Lestrade. John’s been taken to hospital. He was found knocked out about half an hour ago.”

“Did he have anything with him?”

“No, but it looks as if there was a struggle, before his assailant hit him over the head.”

“I’m on my way. He might be able to tell me something. Wait, is he conscious yet?”

  


* * *

  


A pause.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded, his impatience tinged with worry.

"No, he's not. He might not regain consciousness for a while," Lestrade said reluctantly. "He was struck quite hard, possibly with a piece of pipe." He added quickly, "Look, don't worry. John is a tough bastard, yeah?"

But Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. He was seeing the scene in his mind's eye:

_John, walking into an ambush—obviously he'd been targeted, probably by multiple attackers. John, fighting back fiercely, but overwhelmed by superior numbers. And a pipe. John, falling...._

_John._

Sherlock snapped his mobile shut, abruptly cutting off Lestrade in mid-sentence.

  


* * *

  


Guilt wasn't an emotion Sherlock allowed himself. It served no purpose. It couldn't change anything. It rendered people incapable of analysis, deduction, and decisive action.

No, he had no use for guilt. Neither did he allow himself to feel grief, to waste time grieving over what couldn’t be changed. Never mind the tightness in his throat as he looked down at John’s battered, still form in the hospital bed, the leaden dread threatening to fog his every thought.

Anger was an entirely different matter. He pressed a button on his phone, his eyes never leaving John’s pale, slack face.

“Mycroft.”

  


* * *

  


Sherlock listened as Mycroft described the steps he was going to take and wondered why his brother insisted on using four words when one would suffice. Then a slight movement by the patient distracted him and he watched as John’s fingers stretched over the bed clothes. He put his phone down and tentatively took John’s hand, almost smiling with relief as he felt the doctor slowly grasp his own.

Meanwhile Mycroft’s voice continued to issue from the discarded mobile, “which option would be preferable? Sherlock, are you listening to me? Sherlock! Right, I suppose, once again, the decision is mine.”

  


* * *

  


When Lestrade arrived, Sherlock was hunched beside John's bed.

"He awoke once. Groggy and in pain, but he seems to have retained all his faculties."

"Thank God," Lestrade said fervently. "What can he tell us about the perpetrator?"

"There were three of them. Beyond that, nothing. Doesn't matter." Sherlock's voice hardened. "I _will_ find them, regardless. Mycroft should have the relevant CCTV camera footage by now." He glanced at his phone, then hesitated.

Lestrade hid a fond smile and reached for the mobile himself. "I'll call him," he said.

Sherlock's fingers, intertwined with John's, were rather busy at the moment.

  


* * *

  


He really was rather lucky, John thought drowsily. Not the usual thought of a moderately concussed man, but he knew it was true, nonetheless.

When he'd arrived in London, he'd felt purposeless, helpless, and nearly friendless.

Now he had a home, a purpose, and some of the truest friends a man could ask for. He'd heard the determination and quiet competence behind Lestrade's reassuring promise that the culprits would be caught. He'd known Mycroft's silent but formidable support backed that pledge. And Sherlock…

He glanced over at his flatmate, slumbering in the visitor's chair.

Yes, he was very lucky indeed.


End file.
